Walk a Narrow Mile

by Faith Martin

  Leyline Literati were based on the Berkshire border, and boasted an old rambling rectory as their main place of residence, in a small village that still mostly belonged to a vast estate. As its name implied, it gave room and board and ‘vanity publishing advice’ to writers who were interested in the more esoterically minded disciplines. If you wanted to write about interesting hauntings, the possibility of alien visitations, the uncanny, otherworldly knowledge supposedly possessed by ancient tribes, or any other whimsy from psychics with ESP, to cats that could predict the future, they could help guide and advise. The small print assured you that they only took a small percentage of any royalties you might earn. It was, Hillary supposed, a small price to pay for any budding author, desperate to see their name in print.

  Hillary could well see that Gillian might be attracted to the idea of being a published author. Hadn’t her friend said that she never stayed with one discipline for long? And didn’t everyone believe that they had at least one book in them?

  Hillary had to smile at herself there. She herself had written a book last year, a fictional piece based on one of her old cases, and sent it off to a publisher.

  Naturally, she’d heard nothing back since.

  The third of the outfits she was interested in was based just over the Welsh border, and specialized in glass, teaching people to blow glass, make stained-glass windows, small collectable animals, paperweights with those intricate designs and even glass jewellery. Through a Glass Brightly also offered live-in accommodation and promised ‘gifted’ glass artists a show-case for their work and the chance of a regular income via a number of local shops that would display and sell their items on a commission basis.

  The last of the four was set on Dartmoor in Devon, and was mostly based on painted art, with live-in tutors willing to give lessons to professional artists who wanted to expand their repertoire. But they did offer a side-line for those who wanted to become illustrators for children’s books, or become graphic artists. Or, Hillary interpreted cynically, grown men who wanted to stay little boys by creating comic-book characters. Baskerville Artist’s Colony might appeal to Gillian if she had any drawing skills.

  Hillary sighed, and looked up as a tap came on the door. Quickly, she stuffed the paperwork into a folder as Steven, without waiting for an invitation to enter, pushed open the door and looked in.

  He watched, with interest, the way she casually closed the folder and smiled. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ Hillary said.

  ‘Geoff and his team are making progress you know, even if it is only in ruling people out.’

  Hillary nodded. They’d spent all morning with Geoff Rhumer, who’d filled them in on his team’s progress to date. So far, as Steven had said, they’d eliminated, for various reasons, nearly half the people on his list.

  ‘Don’t worry – I’m not getting impatient,’ Hillary said truthfully. ‘I always knew it was going to be painstaking work, and would take time. And I’m not getting disheartened. You don’t have to mollycoddle me.’

  Steven grinned at her, and Hillary felt her heart give a little flip. Damn, he was too good-looking for her own peace of mind.

  ‘Perish the thought,’ Steven said, leaning negligently against the door post. ‘Why don’t you come to my place tonight? I’ll cook.’

  ‘You can cook?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ he admitted. ‘Let’s just say that I can produce food that’s reasonably edible.’

  ‘Deal.’

  He grinned, turned and left her, but as he passed the communal office, he caught Jimmy Jessop’s eye and gave a quick ‘follow me’ gesture with his head.

  Jimmy sauntered out after him, but Vivienne, who was always aware of Steven Crayle’s proximity, watched him leave with a jaundiced eye. Whatever it was that she and Sam were being kept out of the loop about, it was clear that the old duffer was in on it.

  Jimmy followed the super into his office, then closed the door behind him. Steven sat down behind his desk and looked at him levelly.

  ‘Do you know what she’s up to?’ he asked flatly.

  Jimmy hesitated visibly.

  ‘Come on, Jimmy, she’s hiding something from me, I can tell. What’s she got up her sleeve?’

  Jimmy shrugged, but gave him an accurate run down on their activities so far. On the one hand, it felt vaguely disloyal to do so, but on the other, he knew that now was not the time to take sides.

  Steven listened in silence and then frowned. ‘I don’t get it. I don’t understand what she’s thinking.’

  ‘No,’ Jimmy said grimly. ‘I don’t either. I can’t get a handle on her logic, somehow.’

  Steven nodded. ‘But she’s definitely on to something. I can just feel it.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. And she’s good, guv,’ Jimmy said thoughtfully. ‘You know she is. So whatever it is, it’ll be gold, you’ll see,’ he predicted confidently.

  ‘I agree. I thought, at first, that Donleavy might have been over-egging her skills, but now I know he wasn’t. She’s one of the best all right.’

  Jimmy smiled. But he didn’t say what they were both thinking. Yes, Hillary Greene was good, but was she working at the top of her game on this particular case?

  ‘Well, just keep an eye on her,’ Steven said at last. ‘And, Jimmy, you will tell me if … if you start to get worried about her. About anything to do with the case, I mean.’

  Jimmy nodded. ‘Yeah, guv. I know what you mean,’ he said heavily.

  In her office, Hillary ringed the four names of the artists’ colonies and knew she’d have to visit them. But Jimmy would wonder why and so would Steven. And she couldn’t, yet, give them a reasonable explanation.

  She sighed and massaged the back of her neck which felt knotted and stiff with tension. Tomorrow, she’d have to call in sick, and visit the two nearest colonies in person. Perhaps then she’d have a better idea of whether or not she was on a wild goose chase.

  Or seriously losing her marbles.

  Her hand began to wander up to the scar on her neck and once more she caught the movement before it could finish its task. She glanced at her watch, and knew that if she called it a day, nobody would say anything about her leaving early.

  And she did feel tired.

  On the other hand… ‘Sod that,’ Hillary said, and reached for the phone. There was one last thing she could do before she headed back to the Mollern and gave a nod to whoever it was that was parked in the pub car park and assigned to watch over her.

  Hillary checked her organizer, opening the page at the letter T. She knew she should have an electronic version of the big notebook by now, but somehow had never managed to get around to it.

  She found the name of Richard Torridge and noted the address and phone number, pleased to see that her memory hadn’t let her down. She only hoped he was still living in the same area of Spain.

  She rang the number, wondering if she’d get lucky and find it still current. ‘The Brit Bar,’ a female voice sang cheerfully into her ear.

  ‘Hello. Can I speak to Dick, please?’

  ‘Whossis then?’ the voice asked at once. It had a slight Geordie accent to it, and Hillary suddenly remembered that former sergeant Richard Torridge had married for a third time to some lass from Newcastle way, shortly before retiring and heading to Spain to run that perennial ex-copper’s dream – a pub.

  ‘I’m DI Hillary Greene,’ Hillary said, purloining her old title in an attempt to head off the suspicion that she could hear bristling in the other woman’s voice. Mind you, from what she remembered of ‘Dirty Dicky’s’ reputation with women, she wouldn’t be surprised if the poor woman had good reason to be perpetually jealous. ‘I was an old guv’nor of his. I just need him to do a quick favour for me.’

  ‘Oh aye? Better call him then, hadn’t I, pet?’

  Hillary heard her squawk her husband’s name and the clattering noise as she put the telephone down onto a hard surface. Over the line came the sound of glass
es clinking, games machines pinging, and a babble of voices, mostly in English, but with some Spanish thrown in.

  But then, with a name as unoriginal as The Brit Bar, Hillary suspected that Dirty Dick had probably cashed in on the ex-pat’s need for proper British beer and that most of his customers came from the homeland. She heard his wife mutter something dire at him a moment before he came on the line.

  ‘Hillary, is that really you? Bloody hell, Hillary Greene, after all these years, as I love and bloody breathe. You still on the force then?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hillary said, not wanting to go in to her retirement, and her subsequent return to CRT. ‘How are you doing, Sergeant?’ In the old days, she’d been responsible for the feckless git on many a case. She remembered him as being big, humorous, and surprisingly canny. At first he hadn’t liked having a female boss, but once she’d knocked that out of him they’d got on surprisingly well, and had put away a goodly amount of villains between them. She had tried to talk him out of going off to Spain, knowing that the force could ill afford to lose such a useful thief-taker, but he’d been adamant that he’d had enough. And ultimately, there was no arguing with that.

  ‘Can’t complain, guv. Business is good, the women are gorgeous.’ He lowered his voice as he said the last bit so that the Geordie woman who was no doubt hovering within earshot wouldn’t catch it. Hillary grinned, picturing him in her mind’s eye. Never sartorially blessed, he was probably sitting at his bar dressed in baggy shorts and a colourful shirt, probably red as a beet and sweating, but bright-eyed and alert. ‘So, what can I do for you, guv?’ he asked next, confirming her memory of him as being sharp as a tack.

  ‘You in a mood to do an old mate a favour?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘For you, guv, always. What’s up?’

  ‘A con by the name of Liam Hardwicke. Heard of him?’

  ‘Yeah, of course I bloody well have. He’s got a villa not far away from…. Oh ah! And what’s he done to appear on your radar then, guv? The scuttlebutt here is that he’s definitely retired. Made his fortune and scarpered, and is now happy to leave all the wheeling and dealing to his competitors. Don’t tell me he’s got tired of all that sun and sangria and gone all nostalgic for the bad old days?’

  ‘I’ve got no reason to think so, Dick,’ Hillary said honestly enough. ‘But do you see him around? He’s pretty local to where you are, right?’

  ‘I don’t see him around the same town as where I’ve got the bar, if that’s what you mean – it’s too down market for the likes of him. But the next big place just up the coast a few miles is a bit more classy like. Me and the missus go there sometimes to kick up our heels and have a good time. He’s mostly to be found in the top night clubs, or the fancy eateries mind, which is out of our bracket. But you can see him driving around in his Roller sometimes, or occasionally walking around the designer shops.’

  ‘Right, so you’d know him if you saw him,’ Hillary said gratefully. ‘Do you still have your cameras with you?’ she asked. Photography, along with skirt-chasing, had always been Dirty Dick’s main passion, and he’d even had a few prints exhibited at the local galleries in Oxford and Woodstock in his day. More proof, if it were needed, that there was far more to DS Torridge than his bluff, outwardly loutish behaviour would indicate.

  ‘Sure I do. Mind you I mostly take pictures of the sunset or sunrise over the ocean nowadays for the tourist shops. Atmospheric shots of seagulls or the mists on the distant mountains, that kind of tat. I managed to wangle a deal with a postcard company for a few of them that provides me with a nice little earner. Why?’ he asked warily, but Hillary smiled. She could hear the catch of interest and excitement in his voice that told her that she had him hooked.

  ‘Fancy doing a little surveillance for me? On the q.t. like,’ she added scrupulously.

  She heard the silence on the other end of the line and could guess what he was thinking. A phone call from an old guv’nor asking for work on the q.t. meant that, whatever it was she was working on, was probably being done without the brass knowing about it. Not that that in itself would worry Dirty Dicky much – he’d circumnavigated the top brass often enough himself back in the old days.

  ‘Normally I’d say yes like a shot, guv,’ Dick said cautiously. ‘But I’ve got the missus to think about now. And I ain’t got no back-up out here; I’m a long way from home and me mates. Getting on the wrong side of someone like Hardwicke wouldn’t be no picnic. If I’m rumbled he’s not going to be happy about me nosing around taking pictures of dodgy geezers doing business with him, and I’ll likely end up with broken legs – if I’m lucky.’

  But Hillary was already way ahead of him. ‘Quite right too, Dick, and you should know me well enough by now to know that I wouldn’t ask it of you. So relax. I’m not interested in any likely looking men visiting his villa in the early hours of the morning, or whose hand is in whose sticky little pockets. Like I said, I’ve no reason to suppose that anything like that would still be going on.’

  Over the line, she heard a faint sigh of relief.

  ‘No, this is much more right up your street,’ she said with a grin. ‘I want you to get on film any of the birds he’s hanging out with. And you can do that in broad daylight, whilst pretending to be doing your usual stuff, if you like. Follow them to the beach, or when they go shopping. I’m not asking you to stake out his villa and risk catching the eye of any muscle he’s still got working for him.’

  ‘Now that sounds more like it,’ Dirty Dick said, with glee. ‘A man like that is bound to have some really glamorous types hanging around, I’ll bet.’

  ‘His villa is probably a Hugh Heffner pad by any other name,’ Hillary agreed with a laugh. ‘Then again, he may just have the one permanent one in residence. If so, I especially want photos of her – as clear and as close-up as you can get.’

  ‘With the zoom lenses I’ve got, you’ll think she was sitting in your lap, guv. Trust me, you’ll be able to count the pores on her nose. I’ll get on to it right away. Give me a day to suss out the lie of the land, and I should be able to email you something within the week.’ He paused, then sighed. ‘Mind you, I don’t know what I’m gonna tell the missus,’ he added mournfully.

  Hillary thought of the woman behind that suspicious Geordie voice and laughed. ‘Me neither, Dick. But that’s your problem, mate.’

  Dirty Dick snorted. ‘Here I was forgetting – you’re all heart.’

  Hillary was still laughing when she hung up.

  Tom felt Vivienne slip her hand around his waist, and forced a smile to his face. Beside him, the old reprobate selling the camper van beamed at him enviously. ‘You like it then?’ Tom asked her, discreetly handing over a rolled-up wad of cash to the other man, that the turf accountant quickly made disappear, as if by magic.

  ‘She’s great. She is roadworthy, isn’t she?’ Vivienne asked uncertainly.

  Tom, with a raised eyebrow look, passed the question over to the former owner, who nodded reassuringly. ‘Passed her MOT with flying colours. Got half a tank of petrol. She’s hot to trot.’ He made a great ceremony of handing over the keys, which Tom accepted, before gallantly helping Vivienne to climb up into the passenger seat.

  After collecting the documentation, he got in beside her and headed out of the drive. ‘For now, I’m going to park it at Mum and Dad’s place,’ Tom said, as he drove carefully into the traffic, trying to get the hang of the way the large, cumbersome vehicle moved. ‘But I’ve got a nice rural spot out in the woods already lined up.’

  Vivienne nodded enthusiastically. ‘I can’t wait. But let’s go to the pub, yeah? After the day I’ve had, I need a drink.’

  ‘What, more gangsters?’ he mocked, trying to judge the clearance of a tight corner.

  ‘Nah – I wish. It’s just more of the same – more bloody computer scut work,’ Vivienne moaned. ‘If I have to read any more guff about creating beautiful calligraphy – whatever the hell that is – or how to design your own jewellery from dried b
eans, or how to make fabulous works of art from “found items” or sweet wrappers I’ll go barmy.’

  ‘You what?’ he asked, with half a laugh.

  ‘I’m serious. I’ve only been looking up all these weird artist colony places that Gillian Tinkerton might have visited. For some reason, the mad cow thinks it’s relevant.’

  Gillian Tinkerton. Art colonies. Tom felt a cold prickle on the back of his neck, and feverishly, his mind began to work. It didn’t take him long to see the way Hillary’s own mind had to be working.

  Could she be right? The thought of it brought him out in a cold sweat.

  He wouldn’t want to bet on her being wrong.

  Oh, Hillary, he thought, with a rush of pride and painful despair. You’re just too damned good, sweetheart. You’re going too fast.

  He glanced across at Vivienne, his mouth going dry with excitement. OK, so he was just going to have to match her pace and move faster himself. He couldn’t let her down after all. Especially not now, when she might just be beginning to doubt him.

  Besides, it meant that finally, after all he’d had to put up with from this stupid, sarcastic, ungrateful bitch, he could shut her foul mouth once and for all. And he wouldn’t have to put up with her pawing him all the time either.

  ‘So, what say we christen the van as soon as we can?’ he said softly. ‘And, by the way, we’ve got to give the old girl a name. Why don’t you choose.’

  Vivienne patted the leatherette dashboard thoughtfully. ‘Hmm. I’ll have to think about it,’ she said coyly.

  ‘You do that,’ Tom Warrington said quietly.